I crave being full.

Having your aortic chambers, valves, and vessels replaced by a vortex is unsettling, but you make do with what can't be fixed.

No matter the amount of food, water, love, hate, strike, or slash:
I crave being full.

The intense inhale of a can filling my lungs and striking my oxygen for a chance to feel closer to heaven is painful, a warm feeling conquering my body, giving me a tingly sensation of temporary relaxation resulting in a cell deficiency of false hope.

The stretching of my stomach muscles after breathing in large calories is painful, churning my insides and rearranging my organs to make room for what I thought would make me feel sweet and salty.

The touch of anyone who lets me feel vulnerable and raw with their comfort and compassion is painful, feeling an intense emotion of love, settling into lust, rolling down a hill of "I want to be friends," feeling like I'm not worth the wait.

The strike of a sharp point pressing into God's fabric draped around my weak muscles is painful, leading a small river of velvet down my skin as I regret showing my outsides rot through my appearance.

The red face of a manic run, draining my mind, so I'm too tired to emote is painful, dragging my feet on the ground as my vessels burst through my skin, too exhausted to cry because of the blood rushing to my head.

No patch or stitch can cover this hole that beats with pain, ******* souls dry and making everything disappear in its abyss.

No matter what I crave
I'm always hungry.
I just want to feel whole.